


Done Decently and in Order

by Ryuutchi



Category: Arthur Conan Doyle - Sherlock Holmes series, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryuutchi/pseuds/Ryuutchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I believe I have mentioned how my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, is a marvelous genius in most respects, but anything that he dismisses as unworthy his attention, he dismisses wholeheartedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Done Decently and in Order

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aberdeen Wiggins](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Aberdeen+Wiggins).



> Thanks to Skripka and Jhyanmar for letting me bounce ideas off of them, and to Amchara and Sheena for letting me shanghai them in betaing.

I believe I have mentioned how my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, is a marvelous genius in most respects, but anything that he dismisses as unworthy his attention, he dismisses wholeheartedly. And I also have mentioned in passing one Irene Adler, a beautiful lady with whom Sherlock has been most enamored ever since she outwitted him during a certain scandal. Although love by its very nature is abhorrent to him, being, as it is, completely incompatible with his logical nature, if there were any that he were to love, it would surely be her. It is these points, linchpins of Holmes' very nature, or so I thought, that I found crumbling beneath me.

I have often found that between cases Holmes falls into a peculiar state, alternating painfully between the languor of morphine and the artificially-induced ambition of cocaine. As of late I have endeavored to wean him from the latter, although to little affect, I fear. My attempts to do so are often met with a steely glare and a sharp rebuke, for Holmes is nothing when his mind is not at work, or so he tells me. My own logic is feeble in comparison to his great intellect and even about this terrible habit that disrupts his days I often find myself holding my tongue.

On this particular Wednesday I had not heard from Holmes in a few weeks, being busy with my practice, my clients, and my wife. My own household accomplishments were more than enough to absorb all my attentions, although from time to time, my wife would often suggest with quiet intensity that I take a constitutional and get out of the house. "You have been looking a little pale," she would say, "your patients can wait a little while or Anstruther can take care of them for you." When she was in such a mood there was no arguing with her, no matter the weather, although this day was gloomy with a dull drizzle of the sort only seen in London.

The walk did do me some good, as I hadn't had the chance to stretch my legs in some days, and I took the twists and turns of the streets until my legs took me, entirely without my own intention, to the front door of my friend's house. Such an unanticipated direction could only be fortuitous, I decided, and rang the bell at once. Perhaps my companion was engaged in a case of interest. However, when I was let inside and entered his chambers it was at once clear that nothing of the sort was occurring. He sat moodily at one side of the fireplace, pale, nervous fingers turning a delicate syringe over. His rolled sleeve indicated the action which must have taken place mere moments before. "Ah, you've arrived, Watson. I was expecting you ten minutes past."

"Why ever so?" said I. "What would have made you expect me on a day like this?"

"Your wife is most vexed by you on the dreariest days. I cannot blame her, as you have the most disturbing tendency to wander about and mumble to yourself when the day is neither pleasant nor horrid," he answered. "Such days you take a turn past the apothecary, and walk towards Baker Street. You are a creature of habit, Watson." Holmes threw himself from the chair, and looked about in such a manic way, I was sure he would do something rash. I appeared to me that the cocaine solution my friend had injected must have been far stronger than usual. He snatched up the syringe and packed it carefully away as I watched. "There will be no more visitors today, and even if there were I feel quite sure that I would not wish to expend any time on them. We shall go out for a walk."

"But I have just come in."

"And out again we shall go. When my faculties are as sharp as they feel now, I like to continue my studies of London's outermost neighborhoods. I shall be glad if you come with me."

There was the queerest look in his eye that I had ever seen, but I nodded and reached for my coat once more. "I do believe the cocaine has affected you rather more than usual. If only you would cease use of that damnable drug," I continued, a bit startled at my own passion. "It rots away at the very faculties you wish to hone."

"That may be, my good fellow, but I am nothing but rational under its influence, and it elevates my senses. When I have little else to think on, I must provide myself with stimulation."

He seemed not at all perturbed by my anger, merely shrugging on his coat and waiting for me to step out the door. We walked some way in silence, he seeming as cool and nonchalant as ever, although the tremulous motion of his elegant fingers gave away the nervous energy that he was barely able to master, and I irascible but unable to find the words that would convince him of my concern; not merely as a compatriot but as a medical doctor with some concern for his care.

As we passed the Charing Cross Hotel, I could no longer hold my tongue. "A false stimulation, Holmes! It will do nothing but warp the matter of your mind. You yourself have seen the mood which descends once the drug has dissolved in your veins. There is no blacker force. Why then should you--" I found the words evaporating from my tongue as Holmes leaned down in a swoop that reminded me of nothing less than a hawk descending on its prey, and pressed his lips firmly against my own.

Although I am normally conversant enough in Holmes' reasoning to understand his words and action, I found myself incredulous, speechless and without recourse to words. Holmes kissed the same way he thought, with intensity that overwhelmed my senses and a clockwork precision. I felt myself grow faint from the kiss, strange though that might be, as my own wife's kisses had never had the same sort of reaction from me. Holmes' hand on my arm held me fast until he chose to pull away.

I pressed my fingers to my lips in blank amazement at my companion's trespass, finding myself unable to meet his amused and affectionate gaze. He settled his hat more firmly on his head, tipping it to me as he would to a gentlelady and started off again in the direction of Baker Street.

"Perhaps you're correct, my dear friend," said Holmes. "I should look to find other ways to occupy my mind when ennui begins to close in."

 


End file.
